


Bad Baby

by bun_o_ween



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Prison, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Keith (Voltron), Forbidden Love, Jealousy, M/M, References to Drugs, Rough Sex, Shiro (Voltron) Has a Large Cock, Shiro acts like a good guy but he's actually fucking feral, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2020-12-29 00:33:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21145799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bun_o_ween/pseuds/bun_o_ween
Summary: Shiro's been in jail a long, long time and not once in all those years has he seen something as pretty or as devastating as Keith.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go, lads. My first Sheith slow-burn. I've been wanting to write this for a really long time. Buckle yourself in for an angsty, horny rollercoaster.

Shiro is a gentleman.

He stands when women enter the room. He holds the door for strangers. He helps little old ladies cross the street and he carries their groceries to their car. Or at least he used to.

Opportunities for kindness are few and far between in jail.

But for a gentleman like Shiro it’s impossible to ignore the crying boy sitting at the opposite side of the glass partition.

The boy’s got thick, black hair and its tied into a bun at the nape of his neck. Strands fall either side of his cheeks, sticky with tears. It’s the first thing Shiro notices about him, thinking about how his own hair used to be the same shade. Now it’s alabaster white.

From stress, the doctors said.

The glass is soundproof but Shiro sees the boy’s shoulders hitch, his face hidden in the collar of his leather jacket. Its a big jacket, black and beat-up. Shiro leans in for a better look at the kid and sees no one is waiting at the opposite side of the glass. It’s just the two of them, alone in the no-contact visitation room.

Shiro glances at the guard standing behind him. He’s chewing gum, prodding it between his teeth. He stares idly back at Shiro, readjusting the weight of his heavy gun. The guards are nice to Shiro. Have to be. He pushes back his chair to see what the guard will do.

Nothing.

The guard only blinks, popping a bubble between his lips. He doesn’t lift a finger as Shiro abandons his booth and goes to the one across from the crying boy. Up close this angry type misery is hard to watch. Shiro taps on the glass and the boy flinches.

_Cute_, he thinks.

The boy’s got big, dark eyes and sticky lashes, his nose dusted grief-pink. He’s pretty. Very pretty.

Too pretty to be crying.

Cheekbones. Plump mouth. Young, somewhat feminine if not for his jaw, his wide shoulders. The type of gorgeous Shiro hasn’t seen in years, making his mouth curve in a knee-jerk smile. The kid’s a beauty. A real showstopper.

Shiro picks up the plastic phone beside him and nudges his chin at the boy’s own.

_Pick up_, he mouths.

The boy wipes his face with the sleeve of his too-large leather jacket. He stares at Shiro like he’s insane and the man can’t blame him. He looks insane. White hair. No arm. Littered with scars. The kid’s eyes flick from one attraction to the other, lingering on the folded sleeve of Shiro’s orange jumpsuit.

Shiro forces a smile. He isn’t easy to look at.

Eventually the boy picks up, wetting his mouth before his breath rattles down the line.

“What?” He grits.

The boy has a deep and gravely voice. It doesn’t match his sweet, tiny mouth at all. Shiro’s smile melts into a smirk and he tilts his head appreciatively.

“You look like you’ve been stood up,” he tells the boy.

The kid’s face changes. His eyes narrow. His teeth bare. His cheeks suck in and he looks all the more devastating, hair falling between his eyes. He adopts the disposition of a feral kitty and it’s attractive, but mean enough to make Shiro a little nervous.

“I ain’t been stood up,” says the boy.

Shiro smiles wider at his accent. _Texan_.

The boy doesn’t hang up but his stare is withering. His tongue darts to the corner of his mouth, catching the last of his tears. Shiro can’t look away, enamoured by the petal-pink flesh that slips across his lips.

_Get a grip_, he tells himself. _It’s just a tongue_.

“He must be an idiot,” Shiro decides.

The boy’s nose wrinkles and it makes the tiny loop hugging his nostril twinkle in the fluorescent light. Shiro wonders if there’s any others hidden beneath that baggy, black t-shirt.

“Who is?”

“The guy that stood you up.”

The boy makes a bitter sound and shakes his head. His eyes take that critical path over Shiro’s appearance again - hair, arm, scars.

“Don’t talk to me,” the boy mutters, and he hangs up.

Shiro swallows. He feels a little stupid. A lot stupid. He hasn’t spoken to a pretty boy in years - not one that hasn’t committed a felony. He hangs up his own phone but he doesn’t look away from the boy - that would make him even stupider. Shiro’s prison cell doesn’t have a window and the boy is the best view he’s had in a decade.

His eyes fall from the piercing in the kid’s nose and watch as he wets his mouth again. Shiro wonders what he smells like. If his hands are soft. He seems rough, a little pouty - but not his skin. It looks like cream and maybe it tastes the same way.

Shiro leans closer, accidentally bumping his head against the glass. It startles the boy from his depressive state, a crease forming between his eyebrows. He sighs - Shiro can’t hear it, of course. But he watches as the boy’s shoulders rise and fall, his nostrils flaring. He snatches up the phone again, staring pointedly until Shiro does the same.

“Of course he’s an idiot,” the boy drawls. “He’s in here, ain’t he?”

Shiro swallows back his smile. A moment passes, bravado falling from the boy’s sweet scowl.

“No offence,” he adds, quietly.

“None taken.”

The boy exhales through his nose again and fiddles with a band of leather around his throat. It’s distracting, looks like a collar. It doesn’t do much to diminish the cat-like appearance the boy has and neither do his wide, unnerving eyes.

“What’s a pretty boy like you doing crying over an idiot?”

The words slip out before Shiro can stop them. They make the boy colour, an embarrassed pink that fades down to his throat. A full-bodied blusher, Shiro learns. The kid raises his hand and shows off a silver ring on his engagement finger.

“It’s a promise ring,” the boy explains, and he shrugs. “We’re in love.”

Shiro’s heart thuds, hard and heavy. He had a ring like that too, a decade ago. Gold, like the colour of his husband’s eyes.

“Love,” Shiro echoes, his chest sore.

The boy nods ardently, admiring the band. He looks past Shiro toward the prison as if his boyfriend might walk in any moment. The naive expectancy is heartbreaking.

“My lawyer stood me up,” Shiro offers lamely.

The boy’s nose does that thing again - the cute scrunch.

“She has narcolepsy,” he explains. “I don’t mind.”

The boy gives a whisper of a smile.

“Narcolepsy?”

Shiro nods, drinking in the peek of that small, pink tongue.

“It’s a medical condition,” Shiro says, and the boy rolls his eyes as if to say _I know_. “What’s your boyfriend’s excuse?”

The boy’s smile drops.

“Got into a fight,” he grits in his delightfully rough accent. “He loves fighting.”

“_Mm_,” Shiro says. “Shame. He’s missing out.”

The boy barks out a harsh, sarcastic laugh but he can’t hide the way he blushes. The gentle colour betrays the rough aesthetic he tries so hard to keep in tact. The blush bleeds down his neck and disappears beneath his shirt. Shiro drinks it in like a sunrise, another thing he hasn’t seen in years.

“Shirogane,” comes the bored lilt of the guard behind him. “Let’s go.”

The prisoner nods absently, his lips pressed into a line.

“Gotta go,” Shiro tells the boy, still staring like a starving dog.

The boy glances at the guard, then to Shiro, and finally settles on his hand. He’s looking at the ring again - the promise ring. A promise that had been broken. His shoulders fall and he uses that same hand to wiggle his fingers at Shiro - a wave.

“Bye,” he says into the phone.

Shiro hesitates. There’s a tap to his shoulder, the butt of a gun. A reminder of where he is. Shiro hangs up the phone and stands, but it seems wrong to leave the boy here, his tears not long dry. The guard clears his throat as Shiro just stands there, memorising the sight.

Black hair. Pink nose. Plush mouth.

Shiro thinks about what would happen if he ignored the guard. What it might cost him. If it would be worth it, copping the punishment if it meant he could enjoy something beautiful for just a little longer.

But the rifle touched his back again, and the boy looked again to the empty corridor beyond the guard and Shiro. The clock ticked. The gates buzzed.

The boy was not his visitor, and Shiro was a gentleman.

……………………………………………………………………………

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Keith scrubs the dust off his face, the orange sand that blew up beneath his motorcycle and stuck to the tear tracks on his cheeks. Lance sits at the counter, an orange soda sweating in his hand.

“Don’t want to talk about what?” He asks, eyebrow raised.

Keith pushes away from the sink and watches his dusty tears swirl down the drain. There’s a breeze coming in through the kitchen window and it makes the plants on the windowsill bob. It’s a beautiful day, in theory

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he repeats, his heart still bruised.

Lance takes a long, deliberate sip of his soda - popping his lips as he swallows. He hums, the sound grating in the otherwise silent apartment.

“What’d he do this time?”

Lance asks gently but Keith can hear the disappointment in his tone. Despite being only six months younger than him, Lance has appointed himself as Keith’s honorary, protective big brother. They argue like siblings - but it was their one, painful similarity that brought them together.

They both love incarcerated men.

Keith's boyfriend, Phoenix, has been in jail for almost a year. Lance’s brother has been inside for three. Their friendship blossomed from the cavities the men left in their hearts.

“He had his visitation rights revoked.”

Lance doesn’t hold back his snort. 

“Fighting?” He guesses. 

Keith nods.

“I drove two hours for nothing,” he complains, a stone dropping in his gut.

He glances at his hand and feels a little sick at the sight of the silver ring. It’s a physical reminder that Phoenix loves him. Heavy. Constant. But Keith was getting sick of reminding himself.

He wants touch.

He hasn’t been fucked in a year, and really it shouldn’t matter. Keith has been alone before. He _knows_ alone. He’s self-sustaining, he likes to think - like a cactus. Has a personality like one too, he’s been told.

But Nix ruined everything. Taught Keith how to kiss, how to touch. How good it felt to crawl into a warm bed and press against bare skin. Taught him to expect that he would never be alone again. It was cruel to take that from him, Keith thinks. He sighs, slumping against the counter.

“You miss him,” Lance says.

It’s not a question. If it were it would be a dumb one. Keith misses Nix. He misses the scent of his cologne on the bedsheets. He doesn’t miss the tone in which Lance speaks, the disproval that has been there since day one.

“I don’t get it,” the brunette mumbles, but he shrugs.

Lance has made peace with it, just like Keith has made peace that his best friend will always hate his boyfriend. Lance taps his fingers against the bench and Keith makes a face. The slightly older boy just doesn’t understand, never could. He comes from a big family that loves him - he’s never had to be alone.

“So what? You like, sat there for an hour?”

Lance’s jaw is strained like its a struggle to keep the conversation civil. Keith smiles at that, he shakes his head. A strand of hair falls loose and it’s still damp from his long ride home.

“No. Some guy tried to chat me up.”

“Some guy huh?”

Keith shrugs. “Some creepy guy.”

He feels a pang of guilt for calling the guy creepy. He wasn’t… wasn’t _that_ bad. He was big, yes. Missing an arm, maybe. Handsome though. Keith rolls his eyes at the memory of the man’s stupid broad shoulders, his stupid smile, and how extra stupid he’d looked trying to cram all his stupid muscles into that small, stupid booth.

Lance makes a sage hum.

“Well, you’re kind of a creep magnet.”

Keith arches an eyebrow but Lance only gestures with his hand. He flaps his fingers at the inch of skin between Keith’s jeans and his baggy, crop t-shirt.

“The clothes,” he says. “The hair. You look like an angry prostitute.”

Keith opens his mouth to tell Lance he looks like a _cheap_ prostitute, but a vibration cuts him short. He slides the out-dated phone from his pocket and recognises the number, his heart skipping a beat.

_You have a collect call from Altea County Jail. Say yes to accept this -_

“Yes,” Keith blurts. “I accept.”

Lance perks up, his eyes narrowing as he points one finger at his friend.

“Do not let that _pendejo_ off easy, Keith!”

Keith slaps the finger out of his face, heart hammering as the line clicks and the atmosphere of prison echos down the line. He intends to give Nix a piece of his mind, to share the distress he’s felt in his absence - but all anger melts away when he hears his boyfriend’s voice.

“Don’t be mad at me, kitten.”

Keith exhales, his shoulders falling.

“I’m… I’m not mad.”

In his peripheral he sees Lance bristle.

“Let me talk to him,” the other boy mutters.

Keith covers his ear to block him out, listening as his boyfriend’s deep, buttery voice rumbles down the line. He sounds good. So, _so_ good. Voice rough from smoking, a little crooked ever since he broke his nose. Keith’s stomach stirs as Nix tells him all the reasons he’d been fighting. Good reasons, he assures - and maybe Keith would feel angrier if his boyfriend’s voice wasn’t so hot.

Lance slaps at the counter top, his teeth grit.

“Let me talk to him!” He whisper-yells. “I want to talk to that bitch.”

Keith coughs to mask his words, slicing his hand across his throat to tell Lance to _shut the fuck up_. Nix is still talking. God, his voice sounds so good.

“Tell him you’re mad,” Lance mouths. “Tell him _I’m_ mad.”

But Keith can’t remember being mad. Not when Nix is speaking to him, making him feel like a teenager again. He hugs his waist, making affirmative hums at ever word Nix says.

“He had it comin’ kitten,” and Keith nods. “I couldn’t let him get away with that, y’know? I won’t let no one talk to me that way.”

_I know_, Keith thinks. _I understand_.

But despite how handsome Nix sounds it doesn’t take away from how cold the plastic phone feels on Keith’s ear or the cool clutch of the metal around his finger. Reminders that Keith didn’t understand. It was difficult to wrap his head around these fights knowing they were the very reason he’d not been able to visit Nix for the past three months.

Keith sighs, telling Nix he loves him in the same breath that his heart breaks.

“You only like him because he’s bad,” Lance says when the call is over.

Keith bites his lip. He’s not sure what’s more painful - Lance’s expression, or the chance there’s something truthful in his words. The other boy sighs, crushing his empty soda can.

“You wanna go to the arcade?” He asks.

Keith nods as he puts his phone away. He feels it slide down into the pocket the same way his stomach sinks.

……………………………………………………………………………

Keith’s daddy died in a fire.

A thousand people come to the funeral to pay their respects. Fire-fighters always gathered crowds. _Heroes_. They all cram into the little, Texan church and fan their faces with paper booklets decorated with a grainy photo. Keith, only eighteen at the time, suffocates beneath it all.

The heat. The casket. The sensation of being totally alone amongst a sea of people.

No one notices when he flees the service. No one questions why a boy in a suit that didn’t fit him right crosses the street to buy a pack of cigarettes. His daddy never let him smoke - said they could cause fires. Keith remembers the distinct desire of wishing a fire would swallow him whole that day.

As he stands in the sun, drinking smoke, sweat collecting on his borrowed suit - a man’s voice echoes out across the gas station’s parking lot.

“Big crowd,” says the handsome voice, followed by a laugh. “Did someone famous die?”

Keith glances up and sees the funeral service across the road, the hundreds of seats placed on the lawn because they couldn’t fit them all inside. Then he looks at the man who’d spoken. He’s tall and attractive, with brown skin and browner eyes - and a denim jacket thick with patches.

“No,” Keith says to his cigarette. “It was my dad.”

The man’s smirk fades.

“Shit,” he says inelegantly. “That blows.”

Keith nods, a lump in his throat. It did blow.

There are scuff marks on the man’s combat boots and holes in his jeans. They look purposeful though, like they’d been torn to show off the tattoos beneath the fabric. He even had his hair slicked back like some bad boy from a 1950s movie.

And that’s how he’d met Nix.

He came into Keith’s life as quickly as his daddy left it - a saviour, a distraction. Nix had a motorcycle and a gang, and he had a lot of pot. Other drugs too, strong ones. Types that made Keith’s eyes go black and his fingers numb and his pain drift away like dust particles.

Some days Nix would drape his jacket across Keith’s shoulders and light his cigarette, making him feel just like a film star. Like there was never a hole inside his chest. The man took Keith beneath his wing, and later to his bed.

When Nix slides into the booth across from him Keith’s heart skips a beat. His boyfriend of two years has a smile that spreads so slowly Keith gets all caught up in it - like molasses. When the man speaks Keith can hear his tongue piercing _clack_ across his teeth.

“Hey kitten.”

Keith blushes easily. Somehow, in only twelve months, Nix has gotten a face tattoo. It’s a little bird against his cheekbone, a nod to his gang. The ink and the orange jumpsuit does something for Keith and maybe, _ugh_, Lance is right. Keith does like Nix because he’s bad.

“Nix,” he says, shifting closer to the glass.

Perhaps if he got close enough he would feel his boyfriend’s warmth. Keith places his palm against the glass, spreading his fingers apart as Nix’s hand mirrors his. It makes Keith’s skin mourn, desperate for touch.

“I missed you, Keithy-kat.”

The nickname is ridiculous but still Keith’s cheeks burn warm. He likes the way Nix looks at him. He could feel it if he closed his eyes. Brown eyes, mapping out his skin. Staring at his mouth. Like he was thinking of the same thing - the last time they had kissed, the last time they’d had sex.

A glimpse of white distracts Keith.

He glances up as Nix is speaking, detailing some petty argument he’d had with his cellmate. Keith nods absently, raising his eyes to watch as the one-armed, white-haired prisoner passes by their booth. He’s even taller than the guard. Looks like he could snap the guard in half, and it’s comical to Keith. He hesitates when he notices the boy, pausing in his tracks.

_Shirogane_.

A wide smile widens over the man’s face. It looks silly, really. Like a dog. It doesn’t really fit the whole scarred-and-dangerous aesthetic the man had going on. Keith ties to ignore him, still humming in affirmation to his boyfriend’s story - but he sees the man point at the back of Nix’s head.

_That him?_ He mouths.

Keith raises an inconspicuous eyebrow and tilts his head. He tells Nix he’s listening. He tells Nix he agrees with the black eye he gave his cellmate - but he doesn’t really. He’s still looking at the man behind his boyfriend. The guard nudges at him, trying to push him into the concrete hallway that leads back to the cells.

But Shirogane doesn’t move. His eyes flick over Nix like he’s sizing him up.

_You want me to take care of him for you?_ He mouths.

Shirogane curls his fist and mocks an imaginary punch to the back of his head. He smiles as he does it, a wicked thing. His eyes are dark and it does something funny to Keith’s stomach. This man is ridiculous. He’s jostled as the guards spook and shove him further down the hallway.

“Kitten, you listenin’?”

Keith rolls his eyes and shakes his head, just a little, and turns his attention back to Nix. His boyfriend glances over his shoulder but Shirogane is already being dragged away, that whisper of a smile still glued to his mouth. Keith swears he hears a laugh.

He turns back to his boyfriend and locks eyes with him - his one and only. _I’m listening_, he assures Nix - hating how his blush gives him away.

……………………………………………………………………………


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really happy with how this chapter turned out - please let me know if you liked it too!

Keith’s got dirt under his nails and hair glued to his nape.

It takes forty-five minutes to reach home when he rides the Thunderbird. The bike was a passion project of his daddy’s, something the Texan always referred to as the second greatest love of his life.

_What’s the first?_ Keith always asked.

_That’s you, kid_.

Keith’s house is as hand-me-down as the motorcycle - a stack of wood tied together with nails and nostalgia. Keith likes it. There’s a place for his helmet and a spot at the door for his boots. There’s two bedrooms and a pink bathtub, and a tangle of plants he optimistically calls a garden.

He also likes that he’s the only house for miles and miles of desert.

But what Keith loves most about his home is the one thing he didn’t inherit from his father.

Kosmo’s claws _clack clack clack_ across the floorboards and his nose burrows against Keith’s palm. He’s loved this dog since he rescued it - a scrawny pup he found in the canyon-lands. At the time he was so little he could fit inside a backpack. Now he’s big enough to make the bed groan as he climbs up and settles at Keith’s side.

It’s too hot to move. Keith wants a shower but he can’t find the strength to get up - he’s so tired. Physically and emotionally. He spreads his arm across the empty half of the bed and thinks about the boyfriend-shaped hole inside his heart.

The only sound in the house comes from the ceiling fan.

When Phoenix was around it was always noisy. The radio came on in the morning and it stayed on until night. Nix would take it to the garage with him and work on his bike. Sing along to it too, drumming his fingers as his deep, scratchy voice carved a place for itself amongst the desert.

He was noisy when he worked. Noisy when his gang came over. He made Keith noisy too - found a way to fuck some life into him. Would always laugh into his ear and tell Keith how shy he thought he was, how silent - until he got fucked. And it mortified him, really, but Keith couldn’t shut his mouth.

_So loud_, Nix would say. _Such a noisy little slut_.

He fucked Keith on every surface of the house, every table. Keith couldn’t make tea, couldn’t brush his teeth without being reminded of it. He traces the counter tops and closes his eyes, remembers the tile-shaped bruises pressed into his hip. He even fucked Keith over the coffee table, his cheek pressed to the glass.

Keith hates that table.

Everything had been perfect until little, white pyramids of powder started piling up on that table. Pyramids pushed into perfect lines and snorted up Nix’s nose. _Try it kitten_, he always said. _It’ll make everything better_.

And it did.

For a little bit.

“I don’t like it,” Keith would say when he woke the next morning.

Didn’t like the things it made him say. Didn’t like the things it made him do. Most of all Keith didn’t like the way the pyramids got larger and, over time, Nix began to sell it too. It was at that very coffee table where Keith had got the call - _Nix has been arrested_.

The house has been silent ever since. Keith swallows, staring at the ceiling fan.

_Stop it_, he tells himself. He refuses to cry.

He’s not the type. His daddy always compared him to his mother - a woman Keith's never met. _Frightfully independent_, he’d always say, his eyes soft like he could see her every time he looked at his son.

Keith doesn’t cry over spilled milk.

Or incarcerated boyfriends. Or dead fathers. Crying does nothing.

It doesn’t bring his daddy back and it doesn’t bring Nix back either.

……………………………………………………………………………

The prison is cold and smells like paint.

The guards all know Keith by name. They’re nice to him. Too nice, sometimes. The way they stare makes Keith tug his jacket close around his chest. He wonders what they think of him. The love-sick boy who shows up every week - rain, hail or shine.

_Pathetic_ is a word that springs to Keith’s mind.

Nix’s skin looks pale beneath the fluorescent lights but he’s handsome all the same. His tattoo creases when he smiles through the glass. The gesture only makes him more attractive and Keith refuses to swoon but he comes reluctantly close to it.

“Nix,” he says, dragging his chair closer to the window.

_I’m lonely_.

He can’t bring himself to say the words out loud. Nix’s smile softens. He always has a way of knowing just what Keith is thinking before the boy can even say it.

“I miss you, kitten.”

Keith swallows around the lump in his throat. He hates these visits just as dearly as he loves them. Each week he scans the glass barrier for cracks, a hole. Something he might use to prod his finger through or a fragment of his breaking heart.

“The house is quiet without you,” Keith says, restless.

Nix curls his tongue against the corner of his mouth as he thinks. Keith’s eyes follow the movement and catch the glint of silver metal behind his boyfriend’s teeth. He’s so bewitched by the piercing he doesn’t react to what Nix says to him.

Not at first.

“I’ll send the boys out.”

Nix’s tongue looks decidedly less sexy once those words have fallen off it. Keith’s heart sinks. _No_, he thinks. He hates the boys. Nix’s closest, most trusted inner circle - chaotic and loud, and hardly in the way that Keith misses.

“I don’t want them in my house,” Keith grits.

Nix laughs but the sound is short. Keith can see the way his jaw locks beneath his smooth, shaven skin, the air of displeasure. They mean the most to Phoenix. Keith often wonders if his boyfriend loves them more than him.

“You just said you were lonely,” Nix says and his tone is flat.

Keith shrinks into his chair. He isn’t tall by any means but when Nix uses _that_ voice on him he feels twice as little. He glares through his lashes at the man and tries to muster something fiercer than a wounded pout.

“That ain’t what I meant,” Keith says, then quietly adds, “and you know it.”

Nix snorts. He cocks his head, tucks back a strand of dark hair. His mouth curves up but his eyes are mean.

“Missing something, Keithy-kat?”

Keith bristles.

“Don’t call me that.”

Nix smirks. “Missing my cock?”

The bastard doesn’t bother to lower his voice - and Keith hates how that makes him feel. To see those words said unashamedly into a plastic phone, it makes his stomach stir. He wants to turn his nose up at the offer. To protest. Act like anything other than a touch-starved whore. But the low octave of his boyfriend’s voice makes his spine melt into his chair.

“Keith,” the man purrs. “You don’t know how bad I want you.”

Keith swallows, blinking through his desperate blush. He tugs at the metallic phone cord, once. Twice. When he looks at Nix again the other’s eyes have blown out black.

“If you stopped getting into fights-”

Nix cuts him off with a look. He sits back in his chair and suddenly there’s too much space between him and Keith. The boy chases it and leans in, his breath fogging up the glass.

“You say that like I’m doing it on purpose,” Nix grits.

There’s no give to his voice. No play. Keith instantly regrets opening his mouth.

“It’s not like I start them, kitten. I have enemies in here - you know that.”

Keith presses his lips into a tight line. _Stupid_. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_.

“That’s why I’d feel a hell of a lot better if Strix and Horus were keeping an eye on you.”

Keith shakes his head and squeezes shut his eyes. He feels just like a child, a silly boy. All his words crash and collide at the base of his throat and he can’t squeeze anything out but a weakly strung together sentence.

“I can look after myself,” he says with as much venom as he can muster.

Nix grins, slow and lazy. “Sure you can, kitten.”

His words only make Keith hurt worse. This is what happens when he opens his mouth. He had to ruin it - their one visit of the weak. _Stupid_, he tells himself again. His eyes burn. When he looks up he can see his wounded expression in the glass, so he looks down again and he shrinks in on himself.

“Jesus, Keith.” Nix sighs. “I know you can take care of yourself.”

Keith tastes the way his boyfriend rolls his eyes. He glances up when Nix taps on the glass like he’s some sad zoo animal. The man is hunched down and his teeth are on show, effortlessly charming - eyes bright like he knows it too. Nix grins and Keith’s resolve crumbles.

“I hate not being able to look after you,” Nix says, softly. “It drives me insane.”

Keith nods and he feels guilty. Nix takes _such_ good care of him. He presses his fingers to the glass and Nix mirrors him, that smile never wavering.

“M’sorry,” Keith mumbles.

Nix shakes his head like it doesn’t matter. He keeps his palm to the glass and Keith’s stays there like a magnet. His heart gives a big, heavy thud as it crawls into his throat.

“I gotta go, kitten.”

Keith nods, lowering his eyes. He withdraws his hand and doesn’t look up. He doesn’t want to see Nix leave - week after week, it still feels just as terrible.

“I’ll send the boys out,” Nix says. “Love you.”

“Nix, wait-”

The man blows a kiss and he hangs up his phone. Keith looks up and regrets it immediately, his boyfriend led away by the guards. The words die in his mouth and all he’s left with is a bead of regret tucked away beneath his ribcage. A little voice says he should have stood up for himself - but a louder voice cries out for comfort.

There’s only one other person in the visitation room, Keith can hear her. Her voice is low and professional, she sounds like an attorney. Keith stays at his booth and waits for a long time, too embarrassed to leave while his eyes are still shiny. When he hears the woman retreat, her heels click across the glossy concrete, he stands to follow her out the door.

He’s stopped by a thud on the glass.

Keith’s only half surprised to turn around and see Shirogane. The one-armed prisoner smiles like he’s not locked behind a sheet of glass. Keith’s eyes take their usual route - white hair, folded sleeve, many scars. It’s obvious the man is at a disadvantage but he doesn’t look weak in the slightest. His muscles are so big Keith can see them strain against his jumpsuit.

_Fuck_, Keith thinks. He really does like bad guys.

“I ain’t in the mood for you,” Keith says.

The man raises his hand to his ear. _What?_ He mouths, followed by a smirk. Slow and confident, and all the anxious emotion liquifies in Keith’s stomach and turns to something else. As he walks toward the booth the man’s smile gets so wide it makes Keith blush, looking anywhere but at his mouth.

“What do you want?” Keith snaps into the phone.

The prisoner makes a thoughtful sound and settles in his seat. The long scar across his nose wrinkles when he scrunches it. There’s a bruise on his cheek, old and yellowed.

“What do I want?” He echoes. The man hums thoughtfully. “Gyoza and a pinot noir.”

It makes Keith snort.

“That’s not available from commissary?”

Shirogane laughs. He has a nice laugh, low and rumbly - like thunder. Keith sobers at the sound of it. The prisoner doesn’t mind his sour mood and the boy likes that.

“You come here often?” The prisoner asks.

“Every week.”

“Do you live in Altea? That’s a long drive.”

Keith shrugs. “I ride.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he tells the man. “A Thunderbird.”

The man whistles, low and impressed. “And what about James Dean? Does he ride too?”

The prisoner jerks his head in the direction Nix left. Keith narrows his eyes at the nickname. He eases back into his chair and sucks at his teeth.

“Not anymore,” Keith drawls.

The man smiles again as if Keith was the most amusing thing on the planet. A sense of pride flares inside the boy. He loves Nix. More than anything - but sometimes his boyfriend makes him feel small. But the way Shirogane sits across from him, hanging off his every word, makes Keith feel the exact opposite.

“What’s your name?” He asks the stranger.

“Takashi,” he replies. “But you can call me Shiro.”

_Shiro_.

It suits him, Keith thinks. The name sits in his mouth and he turns it over, back and forth before swallowing it.

“I’m Keith,” he says in return. “But you can just call me Keith.”

It’s a stupid thing to say - but Shiro laughs so loud Keith jumps. His stomach knots at the sound. He rolls his eyes, hates the way he feels seeing a man as huge and handsome as Shiro make such an embarrassing sound.

“Keith,” he beams, still laughing. “Do you make a habit of dating inmates?”

Shiro’s smile is relentless, wide and unapologetic. Keith wonders if this is how Ted Bundy killed so many women. It leaves him awe-struck, distracted by a beautiful face and unwavering attention.

“Like you can talk,” Keith retorts.

It makes Shiro shrug his big, big shoulders. “What’s he in for?”

“Drug possession.”

Shiro’s lips press into a line and he raises one eyebrow. He’s not impressed - but too much of a gentleman to say so.

“What are you in for?” Keith asks.

The man shifts his weight and Keith tries not to stare at the junction where his left sleeve folds into nothingness. Shiro quirks the corner of his mouth, rests the phone against his shoulder so he can cradle his jaw in his hand.

“Not drugs,” he says.

Keith exhales at the ambiguous answer. His face is warm, a confusing hue of humiliation and attraction. The tender, easy way the man looks at him seems to loosen his tongue, words bubbling to his mouth before he can stop them.

“We were together before he went away,” Keith explains. “I’m n-not, I’m not one of those people who dates inmates for fun. Or somethin’.”

Shiro leans closer to the glass, the glare of the fluorescents illuminating all the gold and silver specks in his pretty eyes. When he smiles again, sympathetically, Keith notices how the skin around his eyes wrinkles.

“You must miss him,” Shiro says, very gently.

_Yes_, Keith thinks. More than anything. But all he can manage is a sad, short nod.

“Does he call you?”

Keith nods again.

“Write letters?”

“I write him letters,” Keith corrects

Shiro’s lips press into a thinner line.

“What about conjugal visits?”

Keith can’t help the way his stomach swoops at the mention of it. He turns his face into the collar of his jacket, brushes his lips across the cracked leather. He blinks and for the fragment of a moment his eyes are closed he thinks of Nix.

_Wide, warm hands. Teeth against his neck_. Keith’s breath catches and he looks up, his cheeks warm. Shiro watches him carefully, head tilted.

“No,” Keith exhales. “He fights too much.”

A strand of alabaster hair falls between Shiro’s eyes. He isn’t smiling anymore and Keith swallows, a little nervous. The man watches his throat bob.

“What a shame,” he eventually says. “A lot of guys here would kill to visit you, Keith.”

Shiro says his name like its caught between his teeth and Keith only slightly regrets giving it to him. The man’s eyes watch his mouth for too long. His eyelashes are black, Keith notices. His heart kicks like a frightened horse, his stomach twisting the longer than man stares.

“So,” Keith forces from his dry throat, breaking the spell. “No wife on the outside?”

Shiro’s serious mood suddenly turns silly again - his eyes widening comically. Its followed by a splutter of laughter, a smile that’s as wide as it is roguish.

“A wife?” He repeats, voice mirthful.

Keith allows himself to smile too. Its hardly a kind smile but Shiro’s been playing games - Keith can play them too. He tucks his hair over his ear and nods, not breaking eye contact.

“What makes you think I have a wife?”

Shiro wets his lips and Keith considers how nice his mouth looks. He wonders if they sell lip balm at the commissary.

“I had a husband,” Shiro admits.

Something about his tone makes Keith hesitate before he speaks again.

“So what? He didn’t wait for you?”

Shiro leans back into his chair and Keith notices his scars. Dozens of them, criss-crossed along his arm and bicep, his wrist and fingers. Some disappear beneath the orange sleeve and Keith wonders how far they go.

“Something like that,” Shiro says with an empty laugh.

For the first time there is an awkward silence between the two. Shiro’s expression wavers between sad and amused, the small curve of his lips biting back the full weight of his emotion. _Stupid_, Keith thinks to himself. _You always say the wrong thing_.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts.

Shiro huffs. He shakes his head, gives Keith a strange look. He shrugs his shoulders as if to shake the heavy air that had settled all around them.

“Y’know I’ve never had a letter,” he tells Keith. “Not one in eight years.”

Keith hums. The man is fishing, his smile telling. Keith narrows his eyes and nods, refusing to play at his game. Its almost a relief when the guard nudges Shiro’s shoulder.

“Lets go,” he says.

Shiro stands willingly, his grin finally returning. He resists a second tug from the guard just to look at Keith a little longer. Keith rolls his tongue inside of his cheek, unsure of what to do with it. His blush bleeds all the way to his ears.

“Bye Keith,” Shiro says, dragging out the letters of his name.

Keith snorts, putting his phone back in the cradle.

“Bye,” he mumbles, face hot.

……………………………………………………………………………

Shiro wakes to light upon his face.

Some mornings when he first wakes up he mistakes it for sunshine. For a moment of sweet limbo Shiro imagines he is laying in the grass, or maybe at the beach.

But then a door will buzz or a guard will shout and Shiro’s fantasy falls to pieces like the crumbling plaster walls that line his jail cell.

His cell isn’t very large but he’s the only person in it - a luxury, all things considering. The base of his bed is made of concrete and he’s allowed one fern green blanket and a set of pale sheets. There’s no window in his room but he’s been permitted to line the wall with photographs of places he would rather be.

Sunayama beach. His mother’s house in Okinawa. The backyard of his and Adam’s first home - a lush forest tucked away from the Californian coast.

Shiro stares at the ceiling until he can no longer ignore the drone of prison life from outside. He sits up and flattens the bent edge of a photograph. His cell is very minimal - a desk, a sink. There’s a small stack of books and some sheets of paper, a diary. A photo of his family is pinned above the desk, and there’s another of Adam tucked away inside a book.

He doesn’t like to see his husband’s face too often - reminded of the way it looked the last time he’d seen him.

Shiro stands and stretches. His body aches - it always aches. The world outside is like a hive of bees, voices buzzing through the walls. Shiro kneads his thumb into the muscle of his severed arm, working out the kinks. He has a prosthetic but it wasn’t allowed to come with him - collecting dust like the rest of his life before arrest.

Most days look the same for Shiro.

He eats breakfast. He goes to the library. He spends a lot of time in the gym.

At first he struggled with one arm, found it hard to lift and push himself the way he had before the accident. But he’s learned a lot in eight years - and exercise is the only thing to keep his mind off the long and eventless days.

Shiro showers. He eats lunch.

He doesn’t have friends here, not really. He’s learned the hard way that it doesn’t do to keep friends on the inside. Shiro eats alone and he watches the days pass the way they always do. When he heads back to his cell he reads in the silence of his own company.

He likes his cell. He truly does. It’s nicer than the others, allowed more decorations than some. He was even permitted a small plant, a living thing amongst the concrete.

He’s earned his cell. Fought for it. Done things his past self would be shocked at. Shiro touches the fading bruise against his cheek, then he turns the pages of his novel.

“Shirogane,” comes a voice from the door. “Letter.”

Shiro doesn’t glance up from his book. The only mail he receives are thin, corporate letters from his attorney. But when the letter is dropped onto his desk Shiro knows something is different. Dropping his book, the mans stands and approaches with curiosity.

The envelope is crinkled, thick and weathered. His name isn’t written by a machine - but by hand. _Takashi Shirogane_, it reads in scrawling letters.

When he presses the letter to his nose it doesn’t smell like an office. It has a soft, warm scent to it. Like sunshine. Like sand. Shiro breathes it in, the paper creasing as he relishes in the momentary pleasure. When he flips the letter over he finds no return address, just a lifted lip to show the letter has already been inspected.

Inside he finds a folded piece of paper, just as genuine as the envelope. Faded. Well loved. Like an old book. Shiro touches the tiny speckles in the paper and exhales, wanting to hold on to the simple joy he feels in his very moment. He unfolds the letter and finds only a singlesentence on the inside.

_Now you can’t complain that you’ve never gotten a letter_.

_ \- K_

……………………………………………………………………………

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this/want to see more - follow me on Tumblr (bun-o-ween)or on Twitter (@bun_o_ween).  
I love answering questions and exploring theories, I'm very friendly and interested in meeting more people from the Sheith fandom!! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh I'm back! God, I'm so excited for this one I can't stop thinking about it - day in, day out. PS. Shiro is in his 30s and Keith is only 20 something.

The sky is hot and the earth is napalm orange.

Keith’s heart sinks as he kills the engine of his Thunderbird. He recognises the bikes parked outside his home immediately - their owners too. The men are stretched out on his veranda like they own it. Keith narrows his eyes through the visor of his helmet.

“Boys,” he greets with a thin-lipped smile.

Strix leans against the railing as he drops his cigarette into the sand. Keith grimaces, pulls off his helmet to comb back the damp strands of his hair. _Ugh_, he can smell them.

“Hello, Keithy-kat.”

Strix is tall, tan and stupid. His hair is blonde and wavy like he spends his free time at the beach and not lingering around the gas station. His clothes never fit him right and the sleeves of his red jacket are too short. He smells distinctly of aftershave and Keith wrinkles his nose as he approaches the house.

“Nix would kill you if he knew you called me that,” he says.

Strix smiles with too many teeth as Keith shoulders past him. He follows him to the door and leans against it with his arm over Keith’s head. It makes the boy roll his eyes as he jams the keys into the lock. He hesitates when a deep voice speaks.

“Boss said you were lonely.”

Reluctantly, Keith glances toward Horus. He’s never liked either man but he particularly hates Horus. Not as tall or fair as Strix, the other man is intimidating in his own right. He’s a mountain of muscle and backyard tattoos, with lecherous eyes that Keith can feel scanning the inch of bare skin above his belt line.

“I ain’t lonely,” Keith says.

Strix laughs. He always laughs when Keith’s Texan accent shows its teeth. The boy shoves open the door and both men try to follow him inside. Keith blocks it, and with his free hand threads his bike and house keys through his knuckles.

“No dogs inside,” he bites.

He holds his keys just like a weapon, and while Nix’s gang has never hurt him (wouldn’t live to tell the tale) Keith doesn’t trust them one bit. It’s not because the men are twice his size, or because their arms are as wide as Keith’s thighs. It’s not because they’re armed - because Keith is armed too, and he glances through the open door and to the kitchen when he keeps his faithful shotgun.

It’s because Keith lives miles from anything - and a gunshot or a scream would not be caught by nearby ears. The sun disappears from Keith’s back as a shadow covers him. A hot huff of breath touches his nape, followed by a mean laugh.

“Don’t be like that,” Horus says. “We missed you.”

Then Horus grabs Keith’s sides and squeezes his ribs - and it would be playful from any other man. But it sends a cold sweat up Keith’s back and he lets go of the door, his elbow jerking backwards to shrug Horus off his skin.

Strix and Horus take the opportunity to slip inside his home and Keith stands at the door, keys hanging from his hand. He wishes, briefly, that he’d stayed at work. The mechanic shop is loud and the work is tough - but the men there are the closest Keith has ever come to a family.

Keith takes off his boots at the door, a courtesy the gang never bothered with. The men adopt his living room, the couch sinking with their combined weight. There’s a set of dirty boots propped on the coffee table and the television goes on, the volume turned up so loud Keith can hear his future headache.

“You don’t have anything better to do?” Keith snaps.

Strix sends an amused look from beneath the locks of his hair. Horus stares again at the gap between Keith’s shirt and jeans. The boy folds inward. He can still feel the loathsome weight of his hand against his skin.

“How’s your girlfriend?” Keith asks Horus, his throat tight. “You still beating her up?”

Horus lifts his eyes to Keith’s face and they’re black.

“She left me,” he says.

“Shame.”

At the sound of Keith’s voice, Kosmo trots around the corner. His ears are pinned down due to the noise of the television but a growl leaps to his throat at the sight of the men. Strix stiffens, his back ramrod straight.

“Keep that fucking mutt away from me,” he warns.

Keith drops his hand and rewards Kosmo with a scritch behind one ear. He tugs a finger into his collar and takes the dog to the bathroom with him, not willing to risk him alone with Strix and Horus.

“Good boy,” he says once the door closes behind them.

Alone, Keith deflates. He smoothes both hands over Kosmo’s head and a wet nose presses to his wrist. He sighs, the bathroom tiles cool beneath his feet and the noise of the living room softened by the wall. He locks the door for good measure and turns on the shower, pulling off his clothes and dumping them in a pile.

Kosmo finds a spot on the bath mat and curls up, a mass of fur that rivals the size of the tub. Keith hums, dropping another fond rub to his ear before stepping into the spray of water. His shoulder’s fall and he closes his eyes, washing red dust from his hair.

……………………………………………………………………………

Lance drives a beat up Ford his daddy got for him.

His family isn’t wealthy and the pick-up reflects that. The windows shake and the bobbling Hawaiian dancer on the dash is glued in place. Keith doesn’t feel bad about putting his boot beside her, letting the wind push through his hair.

“They’ve been there the whole week?”

Keith nods. Lance laughs but it’s not a sound of joy. It’s one of thinly-veiled annoyance and the boy can tell by the way Lance grips the steering wheel he’s got less patience for Strix and Horus than Keith himself does.

“Where the fuck do they sleep?”

“On the couch,” Keith says. “Horus snores.

“Of course he does,” Lance mutters in response. “I hate that guy.”

Keith tilts his head to catch his reflection in the crooked side mirror.

“Me too.”

“Are you gonna speak to Nix about it?”

Keith fusses with his hair but the wind only ruffled it back out of place. He gives up, his fringe whipping around the edge of his sunglasses as the Ford rattles over dirt. He pouts his lips, shiny with cherry chapstick.

“Maybe,” he swallows.

Every fortnight the pair visit the prison together. Lance doesn’t see his older brother Louis as often as Keith saw Nix. He says that after three years there’s less of a desire. Keith never says so out loud but he hopes that never happens to him and Nix. He closes his eyes, grimacing at the idea of three whole years without someone he loved.

The no-contact visitation room is empty when they get there except for one other person. A woman with white hair and a voice Keith recognises is sitting at the booths. An attorney - he figures from her pencil skirt and primly crossed ankles. He sinks into a plastic chair and waits, Lance wanders over to the vending machine to jab the yellowed buttons.

Eventually the woman leaves and Lance glances up, eyes following her long legs as she heads for the door.

“Hey,” he says to her.

“Don’t speak to me.”

“Okay,” Lance says, blushing.

Keith presses his lips together to hide his smirk. Lance shoots him a sheepish look, turns around and kicks the machine. There’s a loud, metallic _clank_, followed by a thud. Lance whoops in triumph, fishing the freshly-shaken soda from the dispenser.

“Hey, Keith.”

Keith looks up to where Lance stands in the centre of the room. He’s staring at the booths, soda can raised halfway to his mouth.

“Mm?”

“Come check this guy out.”

Keith glances at the booths but can’t see anything from where he sits. He sighs, forcing himself out of his chair. He joins Lance in the middle of the room and is both startled and completely unsurprised to see Shiro smiling back at them.

_Keith!_ He mouths from behind the glass.

Lance chokes on his soda. Blue eyes burn a hole into the side of Keith’s head.

“He knows your name,” Lance says flatly.

“No,” Keith lies. “He doesn’t.”

He tucks back his hair and shifts under the fluorescent lighting. Shiro doesn’t look away, leaning his chin into his folded arm. He seems serenely pleased with himself, amused by the look on Lance’s face. Keith takes a step forward but the older boy yanks him back.

“You are _not_ going to talk to that guy.”

“Let go of me,” Keith says, tugging at his arm.

“He looks like an assassin!” Lance practically shouts. “Like ex-mafia, some Yakuza-looking motherfucker. Don’t you dare-”

Keith shrugs him off, heading for the booth. Shiro’s smile widens as he sits up straight. Keith ignores the way that makes him feel. _Special_, or something. More special that he’s felt all week.

“Keith!” Lance’s voice is hard and shrill. “He could be a murderer or, or a rapist.”

“He’s not,” Keith says automatically.

He flinches. _Where did that come from?_ Lance exhales through his nose, rushing forward to grab Keith’s arm again. Shiro raises an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side.

“You don’t know anything about him,” Lance hisses through his teeth, voice low like the glass isn’t sound-proof. “You only wanna talk to him because he’s old and hot and looks like he could rip you in two.”

Keith can’t hold back the blush that bites into the apples of his cheeks.

“Not like that you fucking size queen!”

Lance shoves him and Keith stumbles forward the rest of the way. He doesn’t sit down. He doesn’t want to make this a thing - whatever _this_ was. He snatches the plastic phone off its hook and waits until Shiro does the same.

“I can’t talk today,” he tells the man.

Shiro’s eyes fall to Keith’s waist. His blush spreads lower, tugging the hem of his too-short t-shirt over his navel. It doesn’t make him feel gross, like the way Horus makes him feel. It… It makes Keith feel something unidentifiable. Wanted, and a little scared.

“Why not?” Shiro asks.

“My boyfriend doesn’t like me talking to other guys.”

“Aw,” Shiro smiles, scrunching up his nose. “Is he insecure?”

Keith snorts. His eyes flicked to the sleeve of Shiro’s jumpsuit where the orange fabric cut into the meaty swell of his bicep. It’s too small - as if they don’t make a uniform for arms as big as Shiro’s.

“Insecure about what,” Keith mutters.

Shiro grins - his teeth too straight, too white. Too innocent. Keith wrinkles his nose.

“You didn’t leave a return address,” Shiro says.

Keith finally sits at the booth. He can see Lance’s reflection in the glass, arms crossed over his chest and puffed out like a pigeon.

“Why would I do that?” Keith replies. “I’ve got no idea what you’re in for.”

Shiro shrugs his big, big shoulder.

“What would I do - show up at your door?”

Keith almost laughs.

Lance is right. Shiro is a little old, a little hot. A little something Keith knows he can’t entertain - not with a boyfriend like Phoenix. Not with a boyfriend at all. Keith chalks up the hot, excited coil in his stomach to loneliness and nothing else.

“Did you do something bad?” Keith asks.

He wets his mouth and Shiro’s gaze falls to watch. As his eyelashes lower Keith notices they are black, not alabaster like his hair. They’re long too, doe-like and distracting enough that the boy doesn’t notice when Shiro glances up and catches him staring. The corner of his mouth tugs up, lips parted like he’s going to speak -

But he stops when Lance rips the phone out of Keith’s hand.

“Hello,” the older boy announces, voice like sour honey. “I’m Keith’s best friend. You must be that creepy guy he was telling me about.”

Keith blanches. Shiro glances sideways at him, eyes narrowed with mirth. His lips form the shape of a question and Keith doesn’t need the phone to know what he’d said.

_You talk about me?_

“No,” Keith says aloud.

Lance looms over Keith and props one hand on the bench between them. Shiro looks him over, his confident smiled glued in place. It widens, fed by the glower Lance aims through the glass.

“Keith has to go now,” Lance explains, loud and slow - like Shiro is a child. “He’s here to see his boyfriend.”

Something drops and ripples in Keith’s stomach. Guilt. Dread. Something else. Shiro’s mouth moves but the boy can’t hear him, distracted by the panel fixed in place between them. It is thick and sound-proof and covered in scratches - and a reminder that Shiro is exactly where he belonged.

He is a criminal - and all the more dangerous for his good looks.

“Say bye now,” Lance says, startling Keith from his thoughts.

“B-bye,” he stammers through the glass.

Shiro winks. Keith bits his lip, ignoring the finger Lance aims at his nose, chastising him like a bad dog.

“You’ve got fucking daddy issues,” Lance hisses, hanging up the phone.

……………………………………………………………………………

It’s dark when Keith gets home.

The desert is cool and the drive is long enough to kill the butterflies Nix had conjured during their visit. If there were any insects left alive by the time Lance drops Keith off at his house, they are killed instantly by the _thump thump thump_ of music coming from his house.

The veranda shines with crumpled aluminium cans. Keith kicks his way through them and they cry like wind-chimes. There’s a parcel waiting on the steps and he tucks it beneath his arm before opening the house. It smells like stale beer and pot inside. Keith shoots a look into the living room but Strix and Horus are too drunk to notice his arrival.

Keith relishes the silence of his bedroom.

Kosmo doesn’t lift his head from the mattress but he gives a sigh of solidarity. Keith turns on the lamp beside his bed and wriggles from his jeans. He rubs his bare thighs together, little goosebumps from the chill. He picks at his parcel and tries to remember what he’s ordered. When silky, black underwear falls into his palm Keith goes red.

_Oh_.

He’d forgotten about these. Embarrassed, he shoves the skimpy thong back inside its packaging. A silly thing, a whim. A purchase Keith had made one long, lonely night imagining when he and Nix could finally, _finally_ have their first conjugal visit.

The boy pushes the parcel away and blinks to dispel his blush. He smiles, almost, amused by the way it makes him feel. He should try them on, he thinks for just one moment. Keith rolls onto his stomach and pushes his face into the sheets, scrunching it up in both his hands.

As he rolls onto his side he catches the notes of some loud, tacky song coming from the living room and the excitement dies a little. Keith loves Nix. Trusts Nix. But his boyfriend doesn’t deserve to see him in black underwear until he gets those boys out of his house. Keith picks up his phone for a distraction but his thumbs take him to a fresh browser.

_Takashi Shirogane_, he types.

The service isn’t perfect in the desert and it takes a moment for the page to load. As he waits, Keith hears a bang from the kitchen. It’s followed by a ripple of stupid, high laughter. The boy chews at his lip and quickly doubles back, closing out of the screen. _Did he even want to know?_

Keith is restless so he abandons his phone beside him. He picks up the parcel again and takes out the small, black panties. They’re expensive and they feel like it. Keith rubs the fabric between his fingers and is filled with that same silly, nervous feeling. He rolls onto his side and stares down the long line of his legs, wondering if they would even fit.

His bedroom door creaks open.

Keith flinches, dragging his knees up to his chest. Kosmo growls. He knows no one can stand a chance against Kosmo but it doesn’t lessen the dread that slithers up his spine when Horus eases open his bedroom door and leans against the frame.

_I could have sworn I locked it_, Keith thinks.

“We’re ordering pizza,” Horus says, and his voice is sticky with liquor and other things. “You want something?”

Keith’s mouth moves without saying anything. He’s aware of how exposed his lower half is, how his bare feet tuck close against his body. He might as well be naked with the way Horus is staring at his legs. He’s still clutching the underwear in his hand and there’s no way the older man has missed it.

“No,” Keith forces from his dry throat.

Horus nods but he does not leave. He hesitates, and the longer that he stands there the worse and worse Keith feels. The hair on his arms raises. His thighs squeeze together. His eyes water and he forces himself to exhale, to gently pet at Kosmo so his faithful dog will stop growling.

“Okay,” Horus eventually says.

His eyes flick to the lace in Keith’s hand, to his tight-set jaw. He doesn’t bother to close the door, he just leaves, his footsteps receding down the hall. Keith shoots up and locks it immediately, then sinks to the floor and exhales shakily. He’s sweating, anxiety dripping down his nape. Kosmo pads over and touches his knee, and finally Keith breathes again.

“It’s okay,” he tells the dog, but its not Kosmo who needs to hear it.

When his stomach has settled Keith gets up and sits at his desk. He doesn’t want to think about the parcel that he ordered. He doesn’t want to think about the men in his living room. Instead he takes out a blank sheet of paper, rough with pulp - his father and he used to make it from scratch when he was young.

_Shiro_, Keith writes in the top most corner.

And he writes until he feels good again.

……………………………………………………………………………

There is a letter on Shiro’s bed.

The man pauses at the sight of it placed neatly on his blankets. He recognises the handwriting immediately, his name scrawled in endearing, skinny loops. He snatches it up immediately and holds the paper to his nose, inhaling the sun and sand.

Shiro turns the envelope over to find a return address this time. _Marmora Automotive Repairs_, it reads. Shiro breathes the paper in again, resisting the urge to open it then and there. His mouth is still stale from his morning coffee and the day ahead promises to be long and monotonous. With inhuman strength Shiro hides the envelope beneath his pillow.

He thinks of it all day.

At the gym. At therapy. As Shiro stares at grey, concrete walls all he can think of is pretty handwriting and the Texan lilt that goes with it, the petulant curve of Keith’s small mouth. The day passes like molasses and by the time the sun sets Shiro is itching with excitement.

The fluorescent lights blink on one by one. Shiro takes the letter from its hiding place and he’s near trembling, so hungry. The paper crinkles and Shiro is not disappointed by the small paragraph revealed - it’s far longer than Keith’s last letter.

_ Shiro_, it read.

_Do you share a cell or do you have one of your own? My housemates are driving me insane. Can you give me some tips on incarcerating myself? You seem like an expert on the topic. It might be worth it if I can get some peace and quiet._

\- _Keith_

The words are both a bite and a balm.

Shiro sits back on his mattress and reads the letter again. The brevity is maddening. For the first time in a long time Shiro wishes he had a cell phone. What he wouldn’t give to hear those teasing words from Keith himself. He laughs, startled by his own desperation.

Keith is really something.

Shiro tries to ignore the way he feels when he doesn’t catch Keith on his weekly visits. His attorney, Allura, doesn’t visit all that often. Doesn’t need to. Shiro thinks she might do it out of pity - she knows better than anyone that Shiro doesn’t keep any friends on the inside. She’s the closest companion he’d had in eight years and its exactly as pathetic as it sounds.

But now there’s Keith.

Pretty, little Keith.

Keith with the pink tongue and the crop t-shirts. Keith with the leather jacket and the handwritten letters on paper that looks homemade. Shiro tries to imagine Keith making it from scratch and he wonders where he lives. Some place that smells of sun and sand, surely.

“Shirogane,” comes a voice from the door. “The warden wants to see you.”

Shiro doesn’t drag his eyes from the letter. He wants to read it a third time. Four times. He wants to read it until he’s released from prison, however long that may be.

“Now?” He asks.

The guard nods. Shiro exhales but he’s polite about it. He carefully folds the letter back into its envelope and places it between the pages of a hardcover book to join the first. When he’s done he takes a moment to look at his reflection in the mirror over the sink.

_I’m getting old_, Shiro thinks.

The fluorescent lights are unflattering and his bruises aren’t quite gone yet. His eyes are tired and his hair falls between his eyes. Shiro wets his hands and slicks it back. He used to be handsome. He used to have a reason to smile at his reflection.

As he follows the guard toward the warden’s office, Shiro is aware of the restless mood that befell the prison. He can hear anxious footsteps and hushed whispers. He can see eyes watching him from behind the bars. There’s an energy, an adrenaline. Something that brings a light back to Shiro’s eyes.

It always feels this way the night of a fight.

……………………………………………………………………………

The warden is a small, acrimonious man.

Shiro doesn’t think much of him and he knows the warden feels the same. It’s clear from the displeased expression he makes when they’re in a room together, the way his lip curls up like a wilting flower, that he considers Shiro an insect. One he’d love to squish.

Fortunately for Shiro, he and the warden need each other.

Shiro owes his private cell to the warden. His books. His plant. The bruise upon his cheek. All the things the other prisoners did not have - liquor and cologne, everything Shiro could ever want beside his prosthetic arm and his freedom.

In return Shiro gives the warden blood.

He was disgusted the first time the man invited him to fight. Back then Shiro had been sanctimonious, reluctant. He’d held to the last shreds of his humanity like they might serve him in jail. Or like they might excuse the horrible things he did to land him there. His first fight was rattling. It bruised him to the core. It was the first fight that he lost.

And the last.

The nervous, shell-shocked man who entered the arena all those years ago hadn’t stood a chance. But he isn’t that man anymore, not even close. He doesn’t so much as blink when the warden slides across a photograph of his rival for the night.

Sometimes they are prisoners. Sometimes they are not. Tonight a grainy photograph of a middle-aged man stares back at Shiro and there’s an attitude to his expression that irks him.

“What did he do?” Shiro asks.

The warden exhales. “Does it matter?”

Shiro nods. It always matters.

“He murdered his wife,” the warden says.

Shiro picks up the photograph and he stares at it.

“How?”

The warden’s breath catches and its clear that he’s annoyed. Shiro _needs_ to know. He doesn’t bruise his knuckles for just anyone. He doesn’t pull his punches for men that kill their wives.

“He beat her to death,” the warden says, somewhat bored, like he were discussing the weather.

Shiro nods and runs his tongue over his teeth. His pulse doubles, a Pavlovian response to the expectation of a fight. He lays the photo down before he can crease it - best to save the damage for the real thing.

“Weapons permitted?” Shiro asks.

“No blades,” the warden says. “Blunt objects and fists only. I have guests coming tonight and we want a good show. Do you understand?”

Shiro nods.

“Drag it out, do you hear me?”

Shiro nods again and crackles his knuckles. The warden wants a long fight. Something messy. Something his rich friends can talk about for years. He’s capable of that.

“Yeah,” Shiro says, his pupils big and black.

……………………………………………………………………………

Shiro is a good man.

Used to be, at least.

A decade is a long time and prison is even longer - the edges of good and bad have blurred indefinitely for him. The absence of his arm and his husband leave phantom pains, ones that wake him up in the night and make him gasp.

Shiro used to be the type of man his husband was proud of. Shiro used to make cheeseboards when his in-laws visited. He used to volunteer. He used to leave Christmas cards in his neighbour’s mail boxes. He used to sleep through the night without waking up for things long lost.

Sweet memories turned sour. Shiro can no longer think of his marriage without thinking of how it ended. He can’t think of his home without remembering the echo it made once Adam had gone. He can’t think of his old self (kind and gentle and promising) without wondering if that man even exists anymore.

Beneath the prison is a large, concrete room. It smells like blood and sweat. The warden calls it the arena. Shiro’s neck prickles when he steps beneath the warm lights and immediately the audience begins to chatter. They appraise him like livestock, comment on his body and his stature as if he’s no longer human.

Perhaps he isn’t.

Over the clink of champagne classes and high-heeled shoes, Shiro hears them placing bets. Money changes hands. Rumours are spread. _What sort of competitor is a man with only one arm?_ They say. _He has so many scars - surely he has lost a lot of fights_.

Shiro can’t really see the audience with the bright lights in his eyes. He knows they can see him, and he entertains taking off his shirt - letting them see how clearly capable he is, one arm or not. But it’s best to leave that sort of thing for a surprise.

Warden said he wanted a show, after all.

In prison Shiro does things that his old self would never dreamt of.

He rolls his neck until it cracks and watches them bring in his opponent. The wife killer. He’s a tall man but he’s frightened - Shiro knows the feeling. He was scared his first time too. He watches the man dart his eyes around the room. Shiro rolls his shoulders and warms up the muscles in his arm.

_Dear Keith_.

A guard places some items on the ground beneath them both. Two baseball bats. It makes the audience begin to chatter again, makes them more excited - and that’s sick. Shiro makes a show of looking them both over, stooping down to pick one up and test the weight in his hand. The other man stays frozen, realisation sinking in.

_I have a cell to myself but I can’t recommend prison life. The days are long and the food all tastes the same_.

Final bets are placed. The room simmers into an excited type of silence. Shiro can smell olives, can see little trays of food being passed about. Like its a party.

_Nothing ever changes_.

Shiro takes a practice swing into empty air. He knows his dexterity surprises the guests - especially the ones who didn’t place their bets on him. He shows off a little, clenching his jaw so he doesn’t smirk. His opponent goes pale when Shiro swings and his mean smile bites its way into his cheek. _How pale did your wife go?_ Shiro wonders.

_Seeing you is the best part of my week_.

His opponent doesn’t wait for an offical start. When Shiro’s got his back turned the man rushes toward him like a trapped animal. Shiro spins around and breaks his bat across his rival’s back. It splinters, shards of wood scatter across the floor. There’s a shout from the audience, a sadistic cheer. A remnant of wood hits Shiro’s chest and he devours the shouts. His blood runs black.

_I could listen to you talk all day_.

His rival's fear is a formidable weapon. Shiro sees the whites in his eyes before he’s pushed backwards, startled by the sudden surge of strength. He hits the concrete, cheek smacking against the floor. Something hits his nose. His ear. Blood dribbles down his teeth.

_You’re the only interesting thing that ever happens to me_.

Shiro tongues the blood from the corner of his mouth. He consumes it, lets it fuel the fight inside him. He is bleeding, bruised and aching. He is alive and warm and livid.

_You wouldn't like it here, Keith_.

Shiro wipes his bleeding nose and smears it over his mouth like war paint. The audience is deafening and sticky liquor dribbles to the floor. His opponent scrambles up, his nails raking long lines down the white and faded scars on Shiro's bicep. Shiro kicks him and hears something crack. He crawls on top of him and spits blood on his face.

_A tiny thing like you wouldn't last a day_.

He wraps a hand around his rival's throat and squeezes. Tendon flinched against his palm. Someone shouts. The noise turns to static in Shiro's head, every muscle in his body coiled and searing.

_And besides_,

The fight drags on until Shiro's eyes sting with sweat. He plays with his opponent like the warden ordered, until his nails are caked with blood. When its over he collapses, stares up at the blinding lights as his chest demands deep, deep lungfuls of air. The man beside him lays still, his eyes closed. Shiro’s not sure if he’s dead or passed out - it doesn’t matter.

_You're too pretty for prison_.

Someone lifts Shiro's hand into the air. There is screaming. No. Cheering. The ground is cold and Shiro's skull throbs, hand swollen and red. He's won, he realises and drops his head against the cement.

He always wins.

That’s why they called him the Champion.

_\- Shiro_

……………………………………………………………………………

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this chapter I'd really like to know what you thought/your favourite part/perhaps drop some kudos? I am pretty new to this fandom and would really love to hear from y'all!


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